London's Burning
by The Urban Spaceman
Summary: The Reaper invasion of Earth has begun. David Anderson, struggling to keep the resistance alive, finds hope for himself and humanity in the unlikeliest of places—and all it takes is getting a message from a mother to her daughter on a very special day.
1. The Fires of Heaven and Hell

_The Author's short rambly bit: Hello! This story is my entry for the May writing competition at Aria's Afterlife forums. This month's contest is hosted by Rogen80, and is dedicated to Mother's Day. Last month's April competition saw me making merry with everyone's favourite Miniature Giant Space Hamster, so this month I've gone the other way, and hope to tug on a few heart-strings instead. It might not be immediately obvious how this story relates to mothers, but please bear with me, and all shall become apparent._

* * *

London's Burning

_1. The Fires of Heaven and Hell_

'_It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way…'_

David Anderson, former Captain of the Alliance and the human representative on the mighty Citadel Council, deactivated his omni-tool and watched Dickens' words fade from view. A pang of guilt settled in his stomach; his purpose in the charred building was not to save as many literary works as he could before the entire London power grid went down, but to search for survivors.

_Mr. Dickens,_ he thought, as he stepped away from the dying computer memory terminal and began visually searching for his colleagues, _if only you could see London. If only you could see what they have done to Paris and Oslo, to San Francisco and Sydney__… if only you could see bodies of men once no different from you and I, but now little more than technological constructs, lurching down the streets in Karachi and Lima and Johannesburg… if only you could see how they have razed our planet and tried to burn us to char. If you could see, you would surely weep for humanity._

Little of the library's database had remained, but what little he'd been able to save would have to be enough. The Reapers had not been too selective in their desolation of London; any building which was large or looked important had been targeted. The library had suffered only a glancing blow aimed instead at the Centre of Commerce, on Canary Wharf, but it was a blow powerful enough to pull down one of the walls and the entire domed roof, condemning the people inside to a crushing death and speedy burial, or a protracted death-sentence buried beneath tons of rubble. So far, the dead outnumbered the living.

"Skinner!" he called out to his second in command. "Have you got anything?"

"No, Cap'n," came Skinner's reply. "There's nothin' 'ere but blood and bodies. I reckon anyone livin' scarpered at the first sign o' trouble."

Anderson followed the voice to its source, and found grey-haired Commander William Skinner, along with Corporals Danny Brooks and Nila Patel, pulling another body from the ruins. The two corporals carried the corpse away, their formerly black armour almost as chalk-dust-white as the corpse. Anderson purposely didn't look at the body. Just one more casualty, no different from the others. That's what he told himself, at least. He couldn't afford to see them as the people they had been. If he started speculating about their lives, he knew he would be overwhelmed by grief.

Grief could come later. Right now, he had a job to do.

"Do one final sweep with your scanner," he ordered the Commander. "I'll be out front."

He left Skinner to his scans. It wasn't smart to stay in one area too long; the Reapers seemed to have a way of sensing when humans congregated, and a group of more than five or six remaining stationery for fifteen minutes usually resulted in a visit by husks… some of them clearly not created from human beings.

During his time as an Alliance officer, and potential SPECTRE candidate, Anderson had seen many terrible things, but nothing as heart-wrenching or soul-destroying as the sight that greeted him when he stepped out on to the top step of the library's grand entrance. London was choking on the fumes of its own destruction. Thick clouds of black ash and white steam billowed into the air, coming together to create a thick, grey, noxious soup which clung to the cityscape more closely than any photochemical smog of the good old days of fossil-fuels and CFCs.

But not even the blanket of choking smog could hide the desolation of London. There were craters in some places, where before had stood buildings, and there was a beautiful symmetry to those craters, each one identical in shape and size, as if an expert surgeon had simply come along and lanced boils from the surface of the Earth's skin.

The craters were not the worst part. The collateral damage was far worse. Hundreds of wonderful old buildings, monuments to a time when London had been the centre of its own small universe, lay strewn like the carcasses of dead animals, their exposed steel frames and ancient foundations as harsh as sun-bleached bones in a desert. From his vantage point, Anderson could see what had been the Houses of Parliament, now little more than rubble. He could see Big Ben, damaged but still standing proudly, as if defying the hell-fires which had come not from below, but rained down from the sky, as if heaven itself were razing the city to ash. He thought he could even see his childhood home, from the steps of that desolate shell of a library… but he dismissed his last thought as an idle flight of fancy.

"Sir?"

Turning, he found Skinner and the young corporals standing at attention, and he had to try very hard not to smile. Here they were, in the middle of what couldn't even be called a war-zone, because the term 'war' suggested that the fighting had come from both sides, and his troops couldn't help but stand on formality. It was amazing, what a man could cling to, when his entire world had been turned upside down (and parts of it inside out, too).

_A cup of tea. A quick shave every morning. Saluting when your captain so much as looked at you._

Anderson did not upbraid Skinner and the others for adhering so closely to military doctrine. He knew that they needed this. They need somebody to give them orders. They needed someone to salute. Someone to listen to, and draw strength from. Because without those things, and without the knowledge that there would be another tomorrow in which they could continue doing those things, what else did they have?

Skinner gave a grunt, his grey veteran eyes scanning the horizon.

"I don't unnerstand it, Cap'n."

"What is it, Skinner?" Anderson replied.

"The hospit'l." Skinner nodded at a large building—the only one in the whole city, in fact—which had not been so much as scorched by Reaper weapon fire. "Damn near every man, woman 'n' child'll be headin' there. So why'd the Reapers leave it?"

"They don't think like you and I, Reapers." All three of his troops stepped closer. Everybody knew that Shepard was the final authority on Reapers, but Anderson was considered a close second. There wasn't another human in the galaxy, save perhaps Admiral Hackett, who knew as much about their strengths and weaknesses as he.

"They don't want us destroyed," Anderson continued. Even though he was thinking, and talking, his eyes continued to scan their surroundings for trouble. So far, all was quiet, but he'd seen how quickly trouble could flare up, faster than acne on a teenage face. "They want us cowed. Submissive. Why would they destroy hospitals, where people go to get better? The more hospitals left, the more people treated, and the more survive for the Harvest. The more genetic material they have to go in their next capital ship."

Corporal Brooks shuddered, and Anderson couldn't blame the lad. He'd been in the military all of six months, and hadn't even seen his first tour of duty when the swarm of Reapers had descended like the locusts of ancient Egypt. Corporal Patel was only a little better off; she'd seen action in the Traverse, but fighting slavers and pirates was a whole other kettle of fish. The Reapers weren't a kettle of fish. They were a bucket of sharks.

Skinner nodded. It would take more than gruesome anecdotes to shake him. Together, the four of them made a pitiful squad, but the three Alliance personnel had been the only trained soldiers he'd encountered since the Reapers had first struck, three days ago.

"We best be going," he said, glancing up at the sky. So far, all was quiet. The Reapers, for some reason, had finally stopped firing. The angel on his shoulder told him to be thankful for small miracles. The devil to his other side said _they__'re probably focusing on Moscow right now._

So, as he set off with his tiny squad in tow, he gave thanks for the miracle. And at the same time, he sent his prayers to the Russians.


	2. What Had Been Human

London's Burning

_2. What Had Been Human_

_Thou dost not fly, thou art not perched, _

_The air is all around: _

_What is it that can keep thee set, _

_From falling to the ground? _

_The concentration of thy mind _

_Supports thee in the air; _

_As thou dost watch the small young birds, _

_With such a deadly care. _

_My mind has such a hawk as thou, _

_It is an evil mood; _

_It comes when there's no cause for grief, _

_And on my joys doth brood. _

_Then do I see my life in parts; _

_The earth receives my bones, _

_The common air absorbs my mind—_

_It knows not flowers from stones. _

"Forgive me, Cap'n, but you look pensive."

Anderson smiled at Skinner. It was his first genuine smile in five days. "Pensive?"

"Aye."

"I suppose I am, at that," he admitted. "I was thinking of a poem. It's called _The Hawk_, by W. H. Davies. Do you know it?"

"I've never been big on poetry, Cap'n. It always went over my head, when I was in school. No, a good page of prose. That's more my thing. But what's your poem about?"

Anderson shook his head. "It has various themes." He gestured at their surroundings. The street they now walked down (_patrolling_, he called it, because that gave their actions a purpose that mere _walking_ did not) wasn't too heavily hit, but many of the buildings still lurched alarmingly, groaning as they fought against gravity. "All of this… it looks real bad. It _is_ bad. But a hundred years from now, and nature will have started to reclaim it. The wind and rain will start to wear away at the angles of destruction, and even the cobblestones will gradually weather to dust. A thousand years from now, this place will be a jungle of grass and wildflowers, maybe with some trees taking root in the buildings which are solid enough to offer shelter. And one day, maybe thirty-thousand years into the future, some aliens will come here. Or if we're really lucky, there will be a second rapid evolution of mankind. But either way, someone will come here, and walk this street, and see the bones of the buildings lying covered by grass and flowers and trees, and they will wonder about the mighty civilisation that disappeared without a trace."

Skinner spat. "It might not come to that. There's hope yet, ain't there? You said Shepard'll come back."

"Oh, he'll come back," Anderson agreed. What he _didn't_ say was that Commander Shepard might not come back _soon enough_. It was hard enough to raise an army at the best of times. Raising one large enough and powerful enough to take on the Reapers might be an exercise in futility.

Skinner was a more canny man than he looked. He heard the words his captain didn't say.

"Shepard might not make it back before we're all dead," the commander said. There was a cold, hard look in the man's steely grey eyes which Anderson hadn't seen before. "An' maybe by the time he gets here, Thessia will have fallen too, perhaps even Palaven. Even if, by the grace of God or the Devil, Tuchanka was overrun too… what would it matter, as long as we send these Reapers back to the dark space they came from? What does it matter, as long as one man is left standing to carry on, and remember what we did here?"

"One man isn't enough to repopulate an entire galaxy," Anderson pointed out.

Skinner merely grinned. "I dunno, Cap'n. I reckon if that one man was Shepard, anything'll be possible."

"Captain!"

Patel's call over the comm immediately had him on alert. He could hear the tension in the woman's voice, though she was trying her best not to let it show.

Anderson tapped his omni-tool. "What is it, Corporal?"

"Gunfire, sir! End of the road, at the corner of Baker Street!"

"Sit tight, we're on our way."

He didn't need to issue the order to Skinner; the grey-haired vet took off at a sprint as soon as the comm was closed. Anderson felt another pang of guilt. The damn things were becoming an unwelcome part of his daily life. In hindsight, he should have put Skinner with Patel, and kept Brooks by his side. He'd never forgive himself if something had happened to the fresh young man.

The sound of weapons fire reached his ears before he reached Baker Street, and he recognised the source immediately. _Alliance weapons!_

"Sir, over here!"

He spotted Patel taking cover in a half-crumbled hover-bus shelter. Thankfully, Brooks was with her, and the pair seemed unharmed.

"We heard fire, and thought we better wait for you before investigating further," Patel reported.

Anderson nodded, slipping into the role of confident leader as easily as another man slipped in to a hot bath at the end of a long day. "Skinner, go around to the left of that… whatever building it used to be. I'll go right. We'll need to flank whatever's out there. Patel, Brooks, I want you to stay here and cover our six, in case this is a trap. If it looks like we're being penned in, I want you to run and go to ground. Understand?"

Both corporals nodded, their faces pale and guns gripped tight. Without another word, Anderson left them, he and Skinner taking different routes to the building. He kept a low profile as he approached, taking as much cover as he could amongst the torn chunks of building and irreparably broken vehicles, until at last the shadows of safety embraced him.

He crouched in the lee of the building, his eyes roaming across the Reaper-ravaged streets as he sought the source of the weapons fire. At last he saw them; two Alliance soldiers wearing a familiar black armour slashed in places with a deep purple. They were standing beside an overturned taxicab, and by their determined stances he could tell they were guarding the object for some reason. Beset on all sides by husks; it would be only a matter of moments before they were overrun.

Stepping forward and raising his assault rifle, he caught Skinner's attention and gave the hand-signal for _advance and engage_. Skinner nodded and peered down the scope on his sniper rifle, ready to pick off the first assailant.

Anderson increased his pace, letting his tired legs carry him in to firing range. As soon as he was close enough, he pulled the trigger of his weapon, releasing a metal hail of bullets into the unsuspecting husks. Once, he would never have dreamed of shooting at an enemy whilst their backs were turned. Such actions were the work of cowards and murderers, not honourable soldiers upholding a code of morals even in war.

But that had been before the Reapers showed up. Now, Anderson felt a different man, not even related to the noble, if naïve, officer he'd been only weeks earlier. The invasion of his homeworld had taught him one painful lesson; no tactic was too low.

As the husks at the rear of the phalanx were torn to shreds by Anderson's rifle, or expertly dropped by Skinner's snipes, the husks at the fore finally realised they were facing enemies on two fronts. On their own, husks were nothing more than mindless attack drones, and as soon as half of them turned to engage the new threat, Anderson knew they weren't being commanded by one of the higher ranking husks; otherwise they would have been harder to kill.

They fell in droves, crushed between the hammer of Anderson and Skinner against the anvil of the soldiers defending the taxicab. As they dropped to the ground incapacitated or dead, their bodies spewed fluids which were no longer iron-rich blood, but instead some sort of blueish-green liquid which began to pool beneath the bodies.

When it was mostly over, Anderson stepped forward, and Skinner followed him. He found a few still-twitching husks and put a few more bullets in each of them. Unnatural abominations they might be, but once they had been human, and they didn't deserve to suffer like this.

_I wonder if any part of the mind remains, slumbering, watching, unable to do anything to affect what the body is doing to the world. Do the men and women turned in to these shells of humanity know, on some level, what they have become? Or are the human minds destroyed completely?_

He turned aside from his macabre thoughts as the two soldiers approached. Two more men to follow his orders, but at least they looked seasoned. Neither of them held their guns as tightly as Brooks and Patel still tended to. In his head, Anderson was already putting them to good use, assigning one to each of his own soldiers. That ought to steady the young corporals a little.

"Appreciate the assistance," the leading man said. He popped the catch on his visor to peer at Anderson's face, then unclasped his helmet and removed it completely. His features were all planes and angles and there was a light brown cast to his skin. _Native American heritage_, Anderson guessed. The stranger held out his hand. "Major Tom Cole, N6 marines."

"Captain David Anderson." He shook the man's hand.

"Captain Anderson? Sir, we had no idea you were still alive." Then man gestured at his fellow. "This is Staff Lieutenant Michael Simms."

"It's an honour to have my ass saved by you, sir," said Simms, pulling off a tight salute.

Anderson nodded. He heard Skinner approach, the veteran's senses still strained as he scanned the ruined city for any sign of movement.

"What are the two of you doing out in the open?" Anderson asked.

"It's not the two of us," Cole replied. He stepped back towards the taxicab, allowing Anderson to see what lay there.

Two figures sheltered behind the overturned vehicle. One was a woman, tall and slender, her brown hair streaked by grey. She was tending a man, a third N6 marine who was bleeding from half a dozen wounds. The woman's hands were red, and the purple slashes in the N6 armour were now a shade of deep crimson. The man was only barely conscious, his skin damp with feverish moisture, and he shivered as he lay amongst the rubble.

"Doc," said Cole, and the woman turned her face towards him. It was a pretty face despite the lines which wrinkled the skin around the eyes and mouth. Her green eyes took in Cole, Anderson, and Skinner loitering nearby, and showed neither surprise nor relief. _A hard woman_. "We've hit our first piece of good luck."

"So I heard," the woman replied. There was a very faint hint of a French accent on her tongue, which gave her voice a musical quality that seemed out of place amidst the grim setting. "I take it we have you to thank for saving us from those beasts," she said to Anderson.

"Yes ma'am." He gestured at the injured marine. "Will he live?"

"Not here," the woman said. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead to brush away a strand of hair, and smeared a little blood across her skin in the process. Either she didn't realise what she'd done, or she wasn't bothered at all by it. _A hard woman indeed_. "We must move him, and soon. Do you have somewhere safe nearby, mister…?"

"Anderson. David Anderson." He didn't offer his hand. Hers were too busy holding the marine's guts inside his body. "We have a safe place. It's a couple of klicks, though."

"Cap'n," Skinner said, when it looked like the woman was going to object to the distance, "I got an idea."

"Let's hear it."

Skinner thumped one of the open doors of the taxicab with the butt of his rifle. "How 'bout we pull this off, put the marine on it? Shouldn't be too hard to fashion a stretcher. I've carried injured men on worse. We can take it in turns to carry 'im. Shouldn't be too hard, with the two marines, you and I, and the corp'rals."

"Alright," Anderson replied. "Get to it. But work quickly. Our position here has been made… we might find ourselves wading through husks in another five minutes." He turned to the lead marine. "Major, I have two corporals watching our six in a bus shelter on Kingsway. I'd be grateful if you'd bring them here… and bring them up to speed."

"Sir." Cole, whose rank of 'major' put him on an equal footing with Anderson's naval command, set off without question.

The woman merely watched, assessing everything with those sharp green eyes. No longer comfortable under her casual scrutiny, Anderson moved a few paces away, out of her line of vision, under the pretence of keeping watch against enemy movement. A few minutes later, Cole arrived with Patel and Brooks in tow, and Skinner and Simms finished prising off the door of the taxicab. It was time to head back and tend to the wounded.


	3. It's a Small Earth After All

London's Burning

_3. It's a Small Earth After All_

'_My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?'_

"The husks caught Lieutenant Ambrose trying to defend a family, a mother and her two kids, as they fled the chaos. He fought them with his gun, and when they overwhelmed him, he fought them with his fists. Even as one of those mean-looking turian sons-of-bitches ordered its lackeys to drag the family away—and they went kicking and screaming—Ambrose fought on.

"They hurt him bad. Every time he got up, they knocked him down. I guess there came a point where they decided he was beyond repair. They knew he wouldn't survive until processing. So they hauled him out to one of those dragon-tooth spires and pinned him over it, one husk to each limb, like they were going to quarter him or something. Simms and I got there just in time. Even a second later, and he'd've been impaled and turned into one of them."

Anderson listened to Cole's dispassionate voice as the Major recounted the tale of how Ambrose had been injured so badly. Not everybody was unaffected by the tale; Brooks had gone green, and even Skinner wore a troubled frown.

"After that," Cole continued, "we thought Ambrose was a gonner. Luckily, the good doctor found us."

"I'm sorry doctor, I didn't catch your name," said Anderson.

"Francine. Francine Michel," she replied. But she was still in no position to offer her hand in greeting, buried as they were in the depths of Ambrose's shattered armour. "And you do me too much credit, Major Cole; Lieutenant Ambrose is not yet out of the woods."

"How long ago did this happen?" Anderson asked the group of newcomers.

"Yesterday." Cole frowned. "Feels like a lifetime ago. We were in the transport hub when the Reapers first hit, waiting to shuttle back to New York. Within seconds there was chaos… burning, screaming, dying… but we managed to gather a few dozen civilians and hold out for near four days." Bitterness crept in to Cole's voice. "Course, we had a full platoon, back then. Ambrose, Simms and I are the only ones who made it out."

"And the civilians?"

"The husks hit our position hard. Killed three of my men before we even knew what was happening. I'd heard reports of the things… you can't follow Shepard's story without hearing about husks… but I'd never seen one. By the time I realised what they were, we were overrun. Half my men were dead, the other half were trying to save the civilians… I ordered everyone to fall back to the ticket office. Simms was the only one who heard. Or the only one who obeyed."

"It wasn't easy," Simms admitted. He was carrying one end of the makeshift stretcher, along with Patel. "There was this pain in my head, and I thought at one point I heard a voice, telling me not to fight. To stand down, and not fear. Ignoring that voice and following Major Cole was the hardest thing I've ever done."

"Indoctrination," Anderson spat.

"We thought as much," said Cole.

"And you, doctor? How did you come to be mixed up in all of this?"

"My sister and I were visiting one of the museums," said Francine. "The building was almost entirely destroyed by one strike from the sky, but no husks came. I stayed there as long as I could, tending the wounded, trying to save as many lives as possible. I was hiding behind a half-demolished wall when I saw Lieutenant Ambrose being dragged down the street by husks. I wanted to save him, but my legs betrayed me, and would not move. Fortunately, Major Cole and Lieutenant Simms were close by. When I saw them rescue Lieutenant Ambrose, I knew I could stay hidden no longer."

Anderson did not voice his next question. He didn't need to ask what had happened to Francine's sister. He couldn't imagine the woman leaving anybody behind who yet lived.

o - o - o - o - o

_Thank God for the Germans._

The thought came to Anderson as he led the small group deep underground. At the height of the Blitz, during the Second World War, and spurred on by the aftermath of the German nightly bombing campaigns, many deep shelters had been built in which London's population, or at least some of them, could hide from the worst of the carnage. At one point, almost a hundred and fifty thousand Londoners slept in the Underground, and thousands more took refuge in private or communal bunkers.

It was those bunkers, legacy of London's war-torn past, which protected Anderson and his group. The shelter they'd found was beneath an old church, accessible only via the crypts. It wasn't superior knowledge or strategy which had led Anderson down there, but rats. As the Reapers pounded the ground with their mass-accelerator cannons, the rats fled swiftly, going to ground everywhere they could. Anderson and his ragtag group of military and civilians, holed up inside the church, had witnessed the rats scurrying in to the depths of the crypts, and had followed.

Their bunker was at least as deep beneath the surface as the antiquated Underground, longer than it was high, with antechambers and side-rooms, and at some point over the past couple of hundred years, some industrious people had dug narrow corridors through the walls, allowing access to other bunkers. Anderson suspected the series of eerie catacombs had once been used to smuggle, store and distribute illegal items; alcohol during prohibition periods, or perhaps the narcotics which had once destroyed human bodies and minds. Now, those corridors had been blocked off by whatever the survivors could get their hands on. There was no sense in being overrun whilst they slept.

"Take Ambrose to the hospital room," Anderson told Brooks and Skinner, who were having their turn at carrying. Simms followed them, reluctant to leave his injured squad-mate. Then, to Francine; "We've set aside one of the cleaner rooms to be used as a hospital ward. We've already got three people in there, and there are two nurses doing everything they can."

He watched as Cole and Francine looked around at their new home, drinking in the sight of the twenty-three people from all walks of life who had been brought here by Anderson. All of them, save his little squad, were civilians. Food stores were kept in the corner of the room, where everybody could see who was taking what. Their own consciences kept them from taking more than they needed. Indeed, many tried to get away with taking less. Anderson had talked sternly to them about the need to stay physically strong and healthy.

"Do you have omni-gel?" Francine asked. "I ran out whilst treating survivors in the museum."

"The supply's being rationed, but we have some," said Anderson.

She nodded, as if expecting his reply. "Good, then if you'll excuse me, I'll tend to Lieutenant Ambrose. With omni-gel, he might survive."

He watched as she disappeared into one of the other rooms, following the direction Skinner had taken. Patel, meanwhile, made for her own little section of bunker, and Anderson was left with Cole.

"I wouldn't like to see her with a gun in her hands," said Cole, nodding at Francine's back. "Not if there's something standing between her and a patient."

Anderson very nearly smiled, and Cole continued.

"Sir, I know it's not much, but me and my men… providing Ambrose survives… are at your disposal."

"Thank you, Major. We need all the help we can get. For now, though, find a spare corner of the room for you and Simms to bunk down in. One of the women, Mrs. Constant, is in charge of blankets and pillows and whatnot. You'll likely find her in the back room. You can't miss her; she's a skinny harpy of a woman, but she has a good heart. Just… stay on her good side. Tomorrow, once Ambrose has been treated, and things have settled down a little, we'll start talking missions."

Cole nodded and departed, and a bitter pang of jealousy snaked through Anderson's stomach. How grand it would be, to have orders to follow. He'd been praying to a God he didn't believe in for five days to receive orders from someone. Anyone. But so far, all was silent. He had no idea if the Normandy had escaped the solar system. He didn't know where the fleets were, or even if there were any fleets left. What would he do, if the fifth fleet was destroyed, and Hackett along with it? What would he say to these people, to whom he had promised eventual salvation, if the Normandy had been blown out of the sky and Shepard killed (again)?

What would he do, if he was the only one who stood between the Reapers and the total annihilation of humanity?

o - o - o - o - o

"Excuse me, David?"

He looked up from the holo-novel he'd downloaded from the library's database. Ever since he was a child, he'd had a fondness for Dickens. Like Anderson, Dickens had lived for a time in London, and come to care about it and loathe it both at once. London was a city of grandeur and deprivation, of noble men and villainous scoundrels. That much had not changed, across the centuries.

"Francine," he greeted the woman as she sat down on a pallet in front of him. "How is Lieutenant Ambrose?"

"Stable, for now. I do not think he will die from his injuries, but his recovery will be long and slow unless we can get him to a hospital."

"We're staying away from the hospitals. They're too tempting a target."

She nodded in understanding, and he looked at her more closely. Her green eyes were ringed below by dark black semi-circles, and the signs of tiredness showed themselves elsewhere, in the dullness of her hair and the way her shoulders slumped where she sat. She showed less interest in her surroundings than Cole or Simms.

"Is there something I can do for you?" he asked.

Her eyes watered, and for a brief moment he thought she might cry. Then the mask slid back in to place, a defence as effective at keeping others out as a biotic barrier or mass effect field.

"Yes, perhaps. Have you… have you heard from anyone else? Any of the other cities? Any of the fleet which was in orbit? Have you heard from the Citadel?"

"I saw news reports, at first," he told her, deactivating his O-T so he could give her his full attention. "I saw footage from some of the other cities." _Paris and Johannesburg, Lima and Oslo… and Toyko, of course. He would never forget what he had seen in Tokyo._ "But then the Reapers took out the satellites, and I've heard nothing since. Why?"

She chewed her bottom lip for a minute, and he saw the fear and determination warring within her eyes. Then she moved a little closer to him, lowering her voice to exclude everyone else from the conversation.

"My husband and I came here for a medical conference, in Geneva. Afterwards, he stayed, to reminisce about old times with his friends. I chose to come to London, to visit my sister for a day or two. I… I do not know what became of him, my Louis. Part of me clings to the hope that he still lives… but another part of me fears to hope, for I know how unlikely it is that I'll find his body if he… if… he…"

"There's no need to explain, Francine," he replied. "I can't give you the knowledge you seek, but I _can_ tell you this; the Reapers hit our biggest cities first. They targeted places where the powerful dwell, hoping to destabilise us by removing our governments. If you can, take some small comfort from the fact that Switzerland is the arse-end of nowhere, and there are far more tempting targets than Geneva. By the time the attacks on London and Paris and San Francisco had begun, your husband would have known about it. If he's half as clever as I suspect he is, he won't have stayed in the city. He would have fled to the countryside—and there's plenty of it to hide in, in Switzerland—and he will be waiting, praying for you as you pray for him."

"I suppose you are right."

He patted her shoulder. A pathetic gesture, but the only one he could offer. "We do have a communicator… but it's broken. We're trying to fix it. Perhaps if we're successful, we might contact your husband."

A fierce light flashed across her eyes, and rippled down her whole body. Her posture suddenly became upright once more, and she banged the fist of one hand onto the open palm of her other. "Yes! The communicator must be fixed, no matter the cost. It _must!_"

"We will do all we can. I promise, Francine, you'll see your husband again."

Now she shook her head, and a smile both fond and grim played across her lips. "It is not my husband I am thinking of now, David. You see, I have a daughter. A wonderful, brilliant, stubborn mule of a daughter. We… we had an argument. A few months ago. And we have not spoken since. I want to contact her. I _need_ to contact her. I need to tell her that… that… I was wrong."

"Is your daughter with your husband?"

"Non. She works on the Citadel, as a doctor. Ah, my Chloe… I will never forgive myself if something has happened to her.."

Anderson, who had been nodding along to Francine's words as he mentally considered how to find enough food to keep his group alive, finally realised what Francine had said. As her words sunk in, he felt his brow rise towards his hairline in surprise.

"Doctor Chloe Michel? She's your daughter?"

"You know her?"

"Very well. When I was the human council member on the Citadel Council, I frequently sought her out for migraine relief." She'd always been reluctant to give it to him, telling him he worked too hard, he didn't sleep enough, he didn't eat the right things, he ought to let Udina handle the petty matters of state… but she always relented, giving him his much-needed freedom from pain.

"And she… is she… happy?"

He looked at the desperation in her eyes, and was glad that he didn't have to lie.

"I have never seen anybody more happy in their role. Your daughter has the patience of a saint and possibly the healing touch of one too. And, in my heart, I know she is well."

Francine brushed away a tear which threatened to spill over her cheek. "Thank you, David. To hear you say these things… you have no idea how happy it makes me." She stood up, and brushed her clothes down, bringing back some semblance of order. "But still, you must fix your communicator. I must speak to my daughter, and you must speak to your leaders. Then we can get to the task of driving these Reapers from our planet" She gave him a smile which lit up her entire face. "For now, I shall see to Lieutenant Ambrose. I am not about to let him die, after we carried him all this way."

Cole was right, Anderson realised, as Francine marched out of the room. She'd be a devil with a gun, at least to anybody who stood between she and her patients. He just hoped he could get that communicator fixed soon… not just for her sake, but also for his. And for the sake of all humanity.


	4. No-Man's Land

London's Burning

_4. No-Man's Land_

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

"How many miles?" asked Anderson.

"Four and a half," replied Cole. He gestured to the holographic map Skinner and Simms had produced over the past twenty-four hours, from scans taken during their travels. "But they're four and a half miles through the toughest terrain imaginable. Every street has been hit by the Reapers, almost every building around the transport hub levelled. There's little cover, and what little is available is as likely to hid enemies as us."

"But you're sure there's an intact computer power core?"

"Certain. One of my men was working on disconnecting it. He had the job half-done before the husks converged."

Anderson rubbed his chin—he was in desperate need of a shave—and looked at the third man present in the poorly named War Room. "What do you think?" he asked.

The man gave a happy little grin, and patted the large planetary communicator fondly. "Oh yes. Yes. That will do nicely. But we have a conundrum. Do we take the comm to the power, or bring the power to the comm?"

Anderson threw a skeptical glance at the piece of equipment. It looked a mess. The man who called himself _Gadget_, a self-professed technie with a penchant for 'improving' things, made some wild claims about his 'improved' communicator's abilities.

"Are you _sure_ that thing can transmit in to space? It wasn't designed for—"

"I know what it was and was not designed for, O' Captain, my Captain," Gadget interrupted. "And I know exactly _who_ designed it. I could have built better when I was six years old. In fact, I _had_ built better by that age! And yes, I'm certain it will transmit in to space. Trust me. Trust me, like you would trust that lunatic who goes around making mincemeat out of collectors in that little ship of his. What was it called again… the Brittany?"

"Sir…" Cole said, offering Anderson an expression of tested patience.

He didn't need to say more. Anderson had already heard Cole's opinions on Gadget, and they were opinions he happened to agree with. The man had likely escaped from the neuro ward of one of the hospitals, during the chaos of the Reaper attack, but his particular talents left little room for doubt. The man was a genius when it came to electrical and mechanical systems. His skills only let him down when it came to dealing with biological lifeforms… or reality in general. It was just one of the many reasons Anderson had kept him in the confines of the underground bunker, though Gadget barely seemed to notice that he was no longer beneath the open sky.

"We bring the power to the comm," Anderson said at last. "A power unit won't be as heavy as the communicator, and with a little luck and some careful planning, we'll have the luxury of time to get it up and working."

"I agree," said Cole. Forty-eight hours in the bunker had tempered his deference. Now, was was no longer in awe of Anderson. Instead of a legend, he saw a man. It was a change Anderson was glad for; he was certainly no Shepard, after all.

"I want to go with you."

All three men turned to look at the woman who had spoken. Francine stood in the entry to the War Room, her face and body each a mirror of defiance.

"And don't tell me it's too dangerous!"

Anderson turned to the others. "Gentlemen, would you excuse us for a moment?"

They didn't need to be asked twice. Gadget scuttled from the room, the heavy communicator cradled in his lanky arms like a newborn babe. Cole offered the doctor a respectful nod of his head as he passed; his seemed more in awe of her than of Anderson, since she'd saved Ambrose's life. The lieutenant had regained consciousness earlier in the morning, but so far he hadn't said a word. Of course, he'd been pinned in place over a dragon-tooth spire. Anderson guessed it might be a while before the marine was able to work his way past that.

"Francine," he said, trying to avoid a molly-coddle tone of voice, "after everything you've done, I would never even try to fob you off with a line like that. If anybody's capable of carrying out this mission, it's you." She looked like she didn't believe him, like she was going to object, so he hurried on. "In fact, since you already know the terrain, I'd already considered you for the mission. But there's one reason, and one reason alone, why I will not allow you to go."

"And?" she snapped. Had she been a cat, her claws would have been out and her fur on end.

"You're the only doctor we have, and the people in our feeble excuse for a hospital need you here. I don't expect the Reapers to make it easy for us. We may lose people, on this mission, and you're far too valuable to be lost. That's why I'm leaving Skinner behind, too. Because I need someone to carry on if we don't make it. I need someone to take charge, and help these people to survive."

He could tell, by the expression on her face, that she didn't really believe him, that she thought he was talking a load of bullshit. But she acquiesced, and offered no further arguments. Perhaps she sensed that he wouldn't be budged on his matter. Perhaps she understood that she was more valuable as a doctor than a soldier. Either way, she gave him one final scowl, and left.

Anderson turned back to the map, and started to make plans.


	5. The Seeds of Rebellion

London's Burning

_5. The Seeds of Rebellion_

"_If you hear my voice — I don't know that it is so, but I hope it is — if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the remembrance of a home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away, weep for it, weep for it!"_

The entire bunker crowded around Gadget as he hooked the power unit up to the communicator. The mission to retrieve it had been a victory, but one dearly won. Corporal Patel had been killed. Brooks had broken a leg, and Simms had lost an eye.

_Fifty-percent casualties_, Anderson thought in disgust. _Unacceptably high losses. Shepard once led a team into the heart of the galactic core, and not only brought every one of them back alive, but also saved the entire crew of his ship. I can't even lead a half-dozen people across London without killing or injuring some of them._

"We're good to go, O' Captain," Gadget said, slapping the communicator like it was a beast which had just toiled hard.

Anderson looked around at the faces which watched him; faces full of hope, and fear, and longing. Faces which were showing the first signs of shell-shock. He hadn't done a very good job at reassuring them. He'd thought keeping them physically safe was enough. He should have known they needed more than physical safety.

"Start it up," he said, focusing on Gadget so he wouldn't have to look at those accusatory faces. "See if you can contact the fifth fleet."

With a sharp nod, Gadget booted up the comm and began checking for open channels.

"_What if the Reapers detect our signal,"_ someone whispered from the back of the crowd.

"Don't worry," Anderson told them. "Gadget has scrambled the signal. They won't be able to triangulate it."

Gadget made a hissing sound, and frowned. "Nothing, Captain."

He felt hope die within his chest. "Alright. See if you can get through to the Citadel." Whilst Francine was speaking to her daughter, Anderson could at least receive a chewing-out from Udina.

"Yeah, I'm getting something," Gadget said after a moment. "Our signal's been picked up by one of the turian buoys. They're boosting our gain, patching us in to the Citadel communications network. Who should I contact?"

"Doctor Chloe Michel," he replied. Francine looked at him with a smile, her eyes full of appreciation.

"Alright, we're through to the hospital," Gadget said.

"Please direct the call to my omni-tool," said Francine. "Excuse me, everyone, I must talk to my daughter alone."

She left for one of the storage rooms, and at a nod from Anderson, Gadget obeyed her instruction.

"Now, try the embassy," he instructed the techie.

"Embassy, embassy… we're through, Captain."

Anderson activated his omni-tool, and was greeted by a fuzzy hologram of Udina's face.

"You have reached the offices of Councillor Donnel Udina. I am out at the moment, conducting important affairs in the interest of humanity, but if you would like to leave a message I will contact you as soon as I am able."

"Do you want to leave a message, Captain?" asked Gadget.

Anderson shook his head, and Gadget disconnected the call. Silence reigned over the bunker, a silence which was broken only by the very faint voice of Francine Michel, coming from another room. It sounded like she was crying.

"Captain, I'm getting an incoming transmission piggy-backing off our line to the Citadel!" Gadget said. Even he couldn't hide the excitement in his voice. "It's the fifth fleet!"

Anderson leapt up from the pallet where he sat, and activated his omni-tool. "Put it through."

As Gadget obeyed, Anderson hurried out of the main chamber and through a series of smaller rooms, until he came to the furthest storeroom. The air was stale, but even the staleness tasted sweet. His fingers danced over the holopad of his O-T, and a flickering image of Hackett projected up in to the air.

"Captain Anderson!" said Hackett. "I can hardly believe it. I thought we'd lost you this time."

"You almost did," he replied. It felt as if a great weight was lifting off his shoulders and chest. The fifth fleet was intact. The chain of command was unbroken. He was no longer alone. "But what about you? And more importantly, sir, what about Shepard?"

"Shepard? He's in orbit of Tuchanka. Here, let me see if I can patch him in."

The Admiral's hologram flickered as he worked aboard his ship, and just when Anderson thought he was stalling for time, a second hologram appeared beside Hackett. As soon as he saw that chiselled jaw and regulation buzz-cut above the coveted N7 armour, Anderson grinned.

"Shepard! By God, it's good to see you again. I feared the worst when we lost our satellites."

"Anderson, you old dog," Shepard retorted, in a fond tone of voice. "I hope you're looking after my planet. Remember; you break it, you bought it."

"Are you in a position to give us a sitrep?" asked Hackett, letting the casual banter slide.

Anderson nodded, and then filled them both in on everything that had happened in London over the past eight days. Both men were silent during the recount, their faces equally troubled. When Anderson was done, he knew he'd painted a grim picture for Earth's future, but he couldn't lie to the men he respected most in the galaxy.

"We've asked a lot of you," Hackett said at last. "And now, Captain, I'm afraid we must ask even more. Shepard?"

"We have a weapon," Shepard picked up. "Or rather, plans for a weapon. We'll have to build it, but when we do, we'll be able to destroy the Reapers once and for all. Right now, every available ship I've been able to scrounge is committed to building that weapon.

Anderson felt his heart sink. "I guess I shouldn't expect those reinforcements as fast as I'd hoped."

"We're coming, Anderson," said Shepard. "It's just… going to take a little longer than first expected."

"Regardless," Hackett continued, "we have a new mission for you. Earth needs a leader. Somebody to organise the survivors into an army. Not an army as we know it, of soldiers fighting in the open, but a shadow army, willing to apply subversive tactics."

"You've got the wrong man for that job," Anderson said, sensing the impending chaos of people dying under his command. "That's not the sort of warfare I'm familiar with."

"We know. But you're all we've got. People will rally behind you because of who you are. Because you are a symbol. But you won't be doing it alone. There are two things we can give you."

"I'm listening," he replied, though it was with caution.

"The first… a piece of equipment being developed deep in the bowels of the University of Science and Technology, in Dover. A quantum entanglement device. It means instant, almost flawless communication. Shepard and I both have one. Whatever you're using now won't serve you well enough. Retrieve the one in Dover, and it's yours."

A quantum entanglement device?! He hadn't even known the Alliance had plans to make another one! Why had Hackett kept this quiet?

"And the second thing?"

Here, Shepard started to speak, then hesitated. "Not a thing. A person. One of my… contacts… in Cerberus. Miranda Lawson."

"I've heard of her."

"I'm sending her to you. She's going to help you teach Cerberus tactics to your army of resistance fighters. Please… take care of her. She'll try to act the ice-queen, pretend she doesn't need anybody's help, but it's mostly an act. Don't let her do anything stupid."

Anderson heard the unspoken request in Shepard's voice, and nodded.

"Very well. I'll lead this resistance you've planned," he told the pair. "But I make no promises."

"I wouldn't hold you to promises even if you made them," Hackett replied. "Contact me again when you have the QED." His channel closed, his hologram disappearing.

Shepard lingered for a moment, eyeing up what he saw as a hologram of Anderson. "You look tired, Captain. You need to take better care of yourself."

"This coming from the man who forgets to sleep when he's worried about others?"

"Yeah. Don't follow my example. I died once, remember?" Shepard's holographic smile faded a little. "The task we've laid on your shoulders won't be easy. If you need anything, anything at all, just contact me. I gotta go now, we're about to hit a relay… I'll see you soon, Captain."

"Take care of Normandy, Shepard."

The comm line closed, and Anderson felt the weight of his new responsibility settle over him. But it was a weight he could now bear, because he knew others would be thinking of him, helping him in any way they could.

He left the storeroom and returned to the main chamber, where twenty-five people were waiting for him. Francine was already there, the tears in her eyes at odds with the smile on her face.

"Thank you, Captain," she said. "I spoke with my daughter. I told her I was wrong. She told me that she forgives me. You have given me the best Mother's Day present I could have asked for."

"I'm glad," he replied. Then, he looked around at each and every face, from old Mrs. Constant's wrinkled visage, to the fresh face of fifteen year old Mikey, and he saw them anew. They were no longer mere survivors, hiding from the enemy, living like rats in sewers. Now, they were freedom fighters, each and every one of them the living embodiment of rebellion.

"Commander Shepard is alive," he said, and a round of whispers rippled through the gathered crowd. "And he's given us a mission. It won't be easy, but Shepard is counting on us. _Humanity_ is counting on us. I want each and every one of you to take an extra helping of rations tonight, and hit the sack early. You're going to need a good night's sleep."

"Why?" said Cole. "What's the mission?"

Anderson smiled. "Tomorrow, everything changes. Gadget, you'll be in charge of the communications room."

"We have a communications room?" the techie frowned.

"Not yet, but we will. Skinner, Cole, I've got a task for you. You'll need to find yourselves a working vehicle. Something with plenty of room in the trunk."

"Why? Where are we goin', Cap'n?" Skinner asked.

"Dover. You're going to fetch something we need."

"What's this all about, Captain?" asked Brooks, his pale face full of hope and confusion.

"Tomorrow," said Anderson, "we're going to take back the Earth."


End file.
